


Want

by thescrewtapedemos



Series: the only true messiah rescues us from ourselves [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Band, Cocaine, Drug Use, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 01:29:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2410052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete and Patrick never meet and Fall Out Boy never happens but there are some things that are universal constants. </p><p>Pete's magic ability to make Patrick want to commit homicide, for example.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Want

**Author's Note:**

> Opening quote from the song After Midnight by Blink-182

  
_i can't find the best in all of this_  
_but i'm always looking out for you_  
_'cause you're the one i miss_  
_and it's driving me crazy_

-o-

Pete categorically refuses to take stock of his life.

He’s perfectly fine, thank you very much. He’s a rockstar, a frontman for a famous band for fuck’s sake. He’s got no room to be anything but fine. He’s got all the cigarettes and pot he can smoke, all the booze he can drink, and all the cocaine he’s willing to snort. Between groupies and fellow rockstars and people looking for a story to sell he’s got all the pussy he can lick and dick he can suck, too. He’s fucking _rolling_ in being fine. 

Like, so fucking what if he has a meltdown every other weekend? And sometimes can barely get through a show because the inside of his head is almost as loud as the scream of the crowd and it feels like there’s nothing holding him together but a couple layers of skin. 

He’s fucking fine.

-o-

Generally speaking, Patrick doesn’t think his life is too bad.

He’s got a steady if menial job making complicated and obnoxious coffee orders for college students and drinking way more hot chocolate than he really should, enough to pay for rent and new guitar strings too. He’s got a stupid, ugly dog that loves him unconditionally which kind of makes up for the lack of anything remotely like romance in his life. He’s got about half a band with his friend Joe, and a gig playing at every single open mic night his boss does. 

Even if he doesn’t want to. 

“Patrick, please. I’m begging you here. I got literally no one else who wants to open on short notice, plus the customers love you! I have people asking about you all the time!” 

Burt is leaning over the counter, holding Patrick’s register key hostage. There’s about ten people lined up behind him, all wearing expressions that are variations on the theme of ‘tired and angry’. It’s the type of coercion the mob would be proud of and Patrick winces. 

“Burt, I’m not feeling it tonight,” Patrick tries even though he’s kind of got the feeling it’s pointless. Burt’s his boss and Patrick needs the job to make rent. It’s worth a shot, though, because Patrick really _isn’t_ feeling up to the multiple panic attacks he needs to have between him and any public displays of any kind. 

Burt just smiles at him winningly and jingles the keys in a decidedly pointed way. Someone in the line behind him coughs once, meaningfully. Patrick caves like a shitty soufflé. 

“Shit, fine, let me open the damn register before your customers eat you,” Patrick sighs and grabs the key out of Burt’s hand before he can be convinced into anything else. 

“You’re my savior, ‘Tricky,” Burt carols and dances off to do something managerial. Patrick tries a charming smile on the first customer in line and sighs internally. 

The thing is, Patrick _loves_ to perform. It’s his lifeblood and his dream and all that flowery bullshit about life callings. He’s okay with singing, even if his lyrics are pretty much mediocre and he chokes if he thinks about it too hard, and he’d rather be playing an instrument than nearly anything. More than sex even, maybe. Probably not but it’s not like he’s had enough recently to have a decent comparison. 

Patrick’s main problem is that he’s worse than bad at everything leading up to the part where he starts to play. He’s absolutely shit at the patter before the performance, sometimes barely managing a mumbled ‘Hi, my name’s Patrick’ before choking. His tendency to go brilliantly crimson at the drop of a hat doesn’t really help. Joe Trohman says it’s cute, no homo. Joe Trohman is a piece of shit. 

Patrick kind of wants to slam his head into a wall but he settles for smiling extra hard at the lady reaching for her coffee. She blanches and holds her coffee protectively close to her chest as she leaves. 

Patrick sighs and reaches for the flavor syrups.

-o-

The wall beside the stage is _incredibly_ interesting.

Patrick stares at it and tries to remember how his lungs work. _In and out_ , he reminds himself desperately, and tries to get his chest to do something other than tighten up in terror. _In and out_. He barely remembers to loosen his death grip on his guitar, he really doesn’t have the time to tune it again. 

Burt pays his panic attack approximately zero attention and bounces over to him as the lights start to go down, leaving just the tiny raised platform of a stage lit up. He’s bopping along to a beat that Patrick can’t hear, though he can’t tell if it’s because his boss is just that enthusiastic or there’s music playing and Patrick can’t hear it over the roaring in his ears. 

“Time’s up, ‘Trick,” he says comfortably and starts pushing Patrick towards the stage. Patrick would deck him if he thought he’d get away with it. 

Patrick peers across the collection of people. Honestly there’s about fifty people there, maybe. Objectively Patrick is making a big deal out of actually nothing, and probably humiliating himself in the process. Patrick is absolutely aware of this fact and concentrates on not passing out as he steps up and into the light. It helps a little, he can’t see anyone very well. 

“Hi,” he mumbles into the mic, and flinches at the sound of his own voice. 

“Hi!” some jackass in the audience yells back and some people around him titter. Patrick closes his eyes for a second, wishing like he always does that this could come easy to him. 

He wants to be big. That’s his dream. He wants to be the kind of rockstar that saved his life when he was in high school, just a chubby, ugly kid with no friends and even worse anxiety than he has now. He wants kids coming up to him after shows to tell him how he saved their lives. He can’t have that, though, if he doesn’t _grow the fuck up and play_. 

“My name is Patrick,” he says, and starts to play.

-o-

Pete’s bandmates are, objectively, assholes.

Pete’s pretty sure he remembers liking them, once upon a time, because after all he formed a fucking band with them. But he’s high as a fucking spaceship right now and everything is sparking at the edges of his vision. His aforementioned asshole bandmates had vanished an hour or so ago but the cocaine hadn’t and a sweet girl named Candy or Caddy or something keeps bringing him beer and petting his hair and he needs that right now. 

Tonight’s show had been shit and he knows it. He’s a good enough bass player, he knows that too, and he’s a pretty decent screamer, which is all Arma Angelus needs from him, but. But. He had missed the fingering a few times because there’d been some other lyrics running through his head, _it had just been so loud_ , and Josh had consequently fucked up the riff he had played a million times before. After, everyone but Josh had very carefully avoided looking at him with disappointment. 

Josh had gone right ahead and sucker-punched Pete in the gut. Andy had literally thrown Josh out of the bus for that but Pete had actually appreciated it. Josh’s an outright dick and Pete likes that because he knows where he stands with Josh. Usually it’s on the opposite side of a screaming fight but still. 

He remembers liking his bandmates. Not so much anymore, and he’s not sure when that changed. Somewhere in the haze of the breakthrough album and the whirlwind tours and the volume in his brain turning up and up. Sometime after the wonderful discovery of lovely, lovely cocaine. 

Now he mostly stays because he doesn’t really know what he _is_ without the band.

He definitely doesn’t stick around for his bandmates. Except maybe Andy, who’s a cool dude and doesn’t talk shit to the paparazzi or anything. Andy is good people. 

Pete laughs because his whole body is tingling and sparking and reaches for his beer. 

It’s not there and he abruptly remembers that Caddy or Candy or whatever hasn’t been back in a while. When he leans forward he realizes the bar is actually mostly empty and he lurches to his feet. 

Despite the coke and alcohol, or maybe because of it, Pete vaguely knows he doesn’t really want to be sober right now. He heads out the door, ignoring the way the bouncer eyes him uncertainly, and makes his unsteady way down the street. Somewhere there’s a bar that’s open, and the paparazzi haven’t shown up yet.

-o-

Patrick calls Joe the second he steps down from the stage, panting and a little high and a little panicky, still.

“I need to be drunk,” he tells Joe as soon as he hears the other end pick up, and Joe sniggers. 

“Right, meet you at Frankie’s in ten,” he says and then he hangs up on Patrick. Patrick doesn’t particularly care, that’s all he was really angling for anyway. He tucks his phone away and pushes sweaty hair away from his face, glancing around for Burt. 

“Leaving so soon, dude?” Burt asks politely at his elbow. Patrick jumps a mile and shrieks in a masculine way. Luckily the next act up onstage, some skinny fuck of a kid named William or something, is too loud for anyone to hear it but Burt. 

“Jesus, man,” he gasps when he stops feeling like his heart is about to burst. Irritation is starting to creep in with the way Burt is grinning at him all Mister Miyagi-like. “Yes, I need a fucking drink.” 

“Right, right,” Burt chirps and waves him off. “I’ll close up, you get going.” 

“Right,” Patrick mutters and slouches his way to the door. A few people at the edge of the crowd and in the scattered tables notice him leaving and offer smiles he tries to return. It mostly works and he gets out the door without having to say a word to anyone. 

He fishes his keys out of his pocket and spends about a minute when he gets to his car just leaning his forehead against the steering wheel and trying not to hate himself for _yet again_ barely managing five words onstage that weren’t lyrics. 

He needs a fucking drink.

-o-

Frankie’s is a dive bar on the edge of the bad part of town and the _really_ bad part of town, and Patrick loves it pretty much unconditionally. The owner, the titular Frank, is foul-mouthed and only an inch taller than Patrick himself, plus he’s got a secret appreciation for old-school punk that Patrick can appreciate. Needling him about the Misfits and Black Flag is an excellent way to pass an afternoon, most days.

The other reason Patrick likes Frankie’s is currently leaning over the bar and patting Patrick’s shoulder sympathetically. A frankly frightening amount of hair eclipses his vision. 

Ray Toro is a rock god and has the best white afro Patrick has ever seen, plus he’s the nicest guy Patrick knows. 

“Performance anxiety, man, everyone gets it,” Toro says sympathetically. Patrick snorts and leans his chin on his hand, staring moodily at his beer. Trohman is off having a really earnest conversation about veganism or something with an equally earnest lady and is being no help at all with Patrick’s pity-party. 

“I think that has something to do with impotence, which is _not_ my problem.” 

Toro laughs squeakily and walks off to deal with some other customers. Patrick huffs another moody sigh and glares at the back of Trohman’s head for a bit. Joe doesn’t notice but it’s the principal of the thing. 

An hour later it’s past midnight and Patrick is in desperate need of fresh air. Frank is gone for the night, Joe had left with earnest vegan girl, and Toro keeps making impotence jokes and laughing at the top of his lungs. Patrick hates his life. He gives up on the whole night in short order and heads for the door to the alley to get a few minutes of quiet and fresh air. 

He gets about a second of it before he realizes someone else is occupying the alley, judging by the gagging noises. He glances over unwillingly and freezes. 

Despite the fact that Patrick really likes Frankie’s he wishes he were literally anywhere but where he is right now because he's ninety-nine percent sure that _Pete fucking Wentz_ is puking spectacularly all over a wall less than three feet from him. 

The thing is, Patrick very specifically Does Not Like Wentz. Wentz doesn’t exactly go out of his way to make himself likeable, anyway, what with falling drunkenly out of a cab in front of the paparazzi every weekend and reputedly singlehandedly financing the East Coast’s cocaine industry, but still. Patrick has strong feelings about the guy. 

He just feels like a person with that much influence, in the music industry especially, should be doing more with their power. 

He’s not _jealous_ , shut up Trohman. 

However Patrick feels about him, the dude bearing a striking resemblance to Wentz is practically sliding down the wall he was just puking on and Patrick isn’t willing to let that kind of pathetic be on his conscience

“You uh. You okay dude?” Patrick asks hesitantly. 

The man who is possibly Wentz yelps, coughs on something Patrick suspects is more vomit, and whirls. His cheeks look wet before he starts to scrub his face frantically and Patrick squints suspiciously. 

“Were you crying?” he asks without thinking. When he stops rubbing his eyes Possibly Wentz peers suspiciously over his hands at Patrick. His eyeliner is smeared down his cheeks and his eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, and it’s _definitely_ Wentz. The paparazzi have papered every celebrity magazine in the country with too many shots of his hungover face for Patrick to be mistaken. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Wentz demands, pulling his arms back down to expose an expression that’s having a really good try at being a convincing scowl. Patrick snorts and rolls his eyes. Wentz is just as much of a douche as Patrick thought he would be. 

“Nevermind, man. Do your thing.” Patrick shrugs and turns to go because he’s pretty sure the whole night is a wash and he just wants to go home and sulk in front of some Buffy reruns. He’s not even drunk enough for the drive home to be dangerous. 

“Wait, wait,” Pete is saying and then he’s stumbling forward and snagging Patrick’s sleeve. It yanks Patrick around and he’s faced with a pathetic, forlorn Wentz. He’s sniffling a little bit. It’s awful. “I don’t know where I am.” 

“Did your friends _leave_ you here?” Patrick demands without thinking, offended on Wentz’s behalf even if he doesn’t really like the guy. He’s obviously fucking wasted – though puking up half his organs and the night’s cold are probably going a long way towards sobering him up – and no one needs to be left alone in that state. 

Pete doesn’t reply, not a word, but his face shuts down in a second, turning cold and utterly at-odds to his bloodshot eyes. Patrick backpedals. “Whatever, I’ll get you a cab. You’re paying for it.” 

Patrick may feel bad but he doesn’t feel bad enough to give Pete Wentz a ride in his car. 

“Thanks,” Pete mutters. 

“Don’t mention it,” Patrick replies, and means it. 

The wait for a cab at two A.M. on a saturday night is ridiculous and they spend it in nearly total silence. Patrick keeps warm mostly through constant low-level irritation, and probably doesn’t do enough to courteously fill the silence. Pete mostly kicks at the ground occasionally and huffs out sighs. Every one of them make Patrick consider just leaving Pete’s ass and going home. 

Not, like, seriously. Just a little bit. 

Pete reaches into his pocket once and fishes out a cigarette. He pats his hips for a lighter and comes up empty, looking over at Patrick hopefully. 

“No luck, I don’t smoke,” he says with mostly fake sympathy and Pete sighs, tucking the cigarette back into his skintight jeans.

“This day, man,” he mutters under his breath. Patrick glances over, surprised, but Pete isn’t even looking at him. Patrick kinda gets the impression he wasn’t supposed to hear and he suddenly feels a little distantly sorry for Pete, despite his irritation. He looks fucking miserable. 

“Those’ll kill you someday, y’know,” he says without thinking, then mentally kicks himself because Pete’s glancing over all hopefully like he thinks Patrick’s maybe stopped hating his general existence. 

“Not that I care, personally,” he adds hastily to forestall that and Pete looks back at his feet. Patrick refuses to feel bad. 

“Yeah well. Gotta live that long first,” Pete mutters and Patrick wants to snort a little because, honestly. _Honestly_. 

The taxi shows up about a half-hour past when it should have and despite the cigarette interlude Patrick is back to being monumentally pissed off at the world in general and Pete fucking Wentz in particular. He bundles Pete into the back of the taxi and makes him recite his address a few times to the driver before he turns to go. His job is done, Wentz is probably safe, he can go home now. 

“Wait!” Pete yells out the window of the taxi and Patrick turns around with a groan and a glare that causes most people to go white and start backing away. Pete smiles weakly in the face of it. 

“Thanks, dude,” he says awkwardly and Patrick sighs, pasting on something vaguely approximating a smile. 

“My name’s Patrick. Later, Wentz,” he says, and heads back inside to get his keys before Wentz can make him do anything else.

-o-

Pete is still a little drunk but the taxi is relatively warm and his head is pretty quiet for once. He’s thinking coherently, even. He leans back against the pleather seat and stares at the furry, stained ceiling.

He didn’t even know the dude’s _name_ but apparently he had known Pete. 

He had known Pete and had treated him like an actual human being. 

At first Pete had thought Patrick just hadn’t recognized him but he’d called Pete by his name so there went that theory. He had treated Pete normally though. Actually, he had kind of treated Pete like shit, if he’s honest, but he’d done it while knowing who Pete was and it was a little refreshing to be hated in a personal way. Pete’s used to people hating him for his lyrics or his cocaine or fucking up something at a show, or just about anything but _himself_. 

Pete snorts and pulls his knees up to his chest, ignoring the look the taxi driver shoots when he puts his dirty sneakers on the seat. Pete’s a fucking drama queen is what he is. Who cares if the cute dude with the ugly glasses had hated him? Not Pete. 

Suddenly Pete feels really tired. He could use a drink. Or a smoke.


End file.
